Dead to the World

stronger than he looks, in part because he’s a shifter. Sam is in his thirties—at least, I think he is—and he has reddish gold hair that halos his head. He’s a good man, and a great boss. He’s also a shape-shifter, so he can change into any animal. Most often, Sam turns into a very cute collie with a gorgeous coat. Sometimes he comes over to my place and I let him sleep on the rug in the living room. “He’s gonna be fine.”
    “I’m glad,” he said. I can’t read shifter minds as easily as I read human minds, but I can tell if a mood is true or not. Sam was happy because I was happy.
    “When are you taking off?” I asked. He had that faraway look in his eyes, the look that said he was mentally running through the woods, tracking possums.
    “As soon as Terry gets here.” He smiled at me again, but this time the smile was a bit strained. Sam was getting antsy.
    The door to the kitchen was just outside the bar area at the west end, and I stuck my head in the door to say hi to Sweetie. Sweetie was bony and brunette and fortyish, and she wore a lot of makeup for someone who was going to be stuck back in the kitchen all evening. She also seemed a little sharper, perhaps better educated, than any of Merlotte’s previous short-order cooks.
    “You doing okay, Sookie?” she called, flipping a hamburger as she spoke. Sweetie was in constant motion in the kitchen, and she didn’t like anyone getting in her way. The teenager who assisted her and bussed tables was terrified of Sweetie, and he took care to dodge her as she moved from griddle to fryer. This teenage boy got the plates ready, made the salads, and went to the window to tell the barmaids which order was up. Out on the floor, Holly Cleary and her best friend, Danielle, were working hard. They’d both looked relieved when they’d seen me come in. Danielle worked the smoking section to the west, Holly usually worked the middle area in front of the bar, and I worked the east when three of us were on duty.
    “It looks like I better get moving,” I told Sweetie.
    She gave me a quick smile and turned back to the griddle. The cowed teenager, whose name I had yet to catch, gave me a ducked-head nod and went back to loading the dishwasher.
    I wished Sam had called me before things had gotten so busy; I wouldn’t have minded coming in a little earlier. Of course, he wasn’t exactly himself tonight. I began checking the tables in my section, getting fresh drinks and clearing off food baskets, collecting money and bringing change.
    “Barmaid! Bring me a Red Stuff!” The voice was unfamiliar, and the order was unusual. Red Stuff was the cheapest generic artificial blood, and only the newest vampires would be caught dead asking for it. I got a bottle from the clear-fronted refrigerator and stuck it in the microwave. While it warmed, I scanned the crowd for the vamp. He was sitting with my friend Tara Thornton. I’d never seen him before, which was worrisome. Tara’d been dating an older vampire (much older: Franklin Mott had been older than Tara in human years before he died, and he’d been a vampire for over three hundred years), and he’d been giving her lavish gifts—like a Camaro. What was she doing with this new guy? At least Franklin had nice manners.
    I put the warm bottle on a tray and carried it over to the couple. The lighting in Merlotte’s at night isn’t particularly bright, which is how patrons like it, and it wasn’t until I’d gotten quite near that I could appreciate Tara’s companion. He was slim and narrow shouldered with slicked-back hair. He had long fingernails and a sharp face. In an odd way, was attractive—if you like a liberal dose of danger with your sex.
    I put the bottle down in front of him and looked uncertainly at Tara. She looked great, as usual. Tara is tall, slim, and dark-haired, and she has a wardrobe of wonderful clothes. She’d overcome a truly horrible childhood to own her own business and actually join the chamber of commerce. Then she started dating the wealthy vampire, Franklin Mott, and she just won’t talk about her life anymore.
    “Sookie,” she said, “I want you to meet Franklin’s friend Mickey.” She didn’t sound like she wanted us to meet. She sounded like she wished I’d never come over with Mickey’s drink. Her own glass was almost empty, but she said, “No,” when I asked her if she was ready for another.
    I exchanged a nod with the vampire; they don’t shake hands, not